


such a mournful sound

by andymcnope



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andymcnope/pseuds/andymcnope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara can’t help but think that’s all her life has been, waiting for storms to come, waiting for storms to pass. Laurel had once accused her of causing most of them, but Sara doesn’t feel like a storm; she feels like the seashore, doing its best to slow down the storm or at least weaken it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	such a mournful sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peacefulboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefulboo/gifts).



The first real conversation they have since— since everything, really — happens when they’re two days into their journey, somewhere in the middle of the ocean.

A storm has been brewing for days or maybe a week, since before they arrived at Starling City, and they’re not sure if it’ll miss them or break above them. 

(Sara can’t help but think that’s all her life has been, waiting for storms to come, waiting for storms to pass. Laurel had once accused her of causing most of them, but Sara doesn’t feel like a storm; she feels like the seashore, doing its best to slow down the storm or at least weaken it.)

“You are not here,” Nyssa says as her fingers tread through Sara’s hair as Sara’s head rests on Nyssa’s stomach; they’re in the Captain’s cabin, huddled together in the middle of the oversized bed. 

Sara turns on her side so she can look at Nyssa; she’s wearing a silk nightgown, and it always amuses her - or annoys her, depending on her mood - that Nyssa can’t seem to be able to sleep in boxer shorts and a t-shirt. Each of Nyssa’s nightgowns probably cost more than what Sara made in a week at the Verdant, and they are all gorgeous, but it always adds an air of formality to these intimate moments that Sara never quite knows how to handle.

“I am here,” Sara offers with an honest smile.

“You will miss them?” Nyssa asks. “Your sister, and your friends?” 

Sara feels moisture building up in her eyes, and she wipes at them. “It’s— yeah, I’ll miss them, but I’m exactly where I should be,” she adds, trying to sound reassuring and certain.

“Where you _should_ be,” Nyssa repeats. “But not where you _want_ to be.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sara says defensively; she sits up in bed, runs a hand through her hair. The air around them is humid and thick; it reminds her just a little too much of the steam vents in the foundry. She reaches out to run her fingers across Nyssa’s cheekbone, the woman instinctively leaning into the touch “You have changed,” Nyssa explains, but her tone is not accusatory. “Do you remember when I found you?”

Sara remembers it, almost as much as she remembers their relationship growing until Nyssa went from ‘ _We found you’_ to ‘ _I found you’;_ Sara remembers Nyssa’s lessons, fighting with all manners of weapons until they ran out of those and fought with their hands, bloodied knuckles and lasting bruises. At first Sara had felt weak and fatigued each day, but as her body grew strong and her mind steeled itself, she began to live for those sessions. 

(Being with Nyssa, it hadn’t been like her previous relationships; Sara fell in love with herself for the first time in her life — she liked herself around Nyssa, enjoyed the way Nyssa’s eyes twinkled around her. It hadn’t taken long to see how Nyssa protected her when possible, how Nyssa revered her when they were along; the feelings had been dizzying, their bond had grown stronger with every mission, every lesson, every night when Nyssa had given up the comfort of her quarters for Sara’s cramped cot.)

“You were born into the League,” Sara explains. “You don’t see it the way I do.”

“I am not the League, yellow bird,” Nyssa reminds her.

“You are not,” Sara concedes. 

(If the League was the darkness creeping into Sara’s soul, Nyssa was like the stars in the night sky above; they were connected, forever intertwined.)

Sara leans into Nyssa until their foreheads are touching, breathes in until the scent of Nyssa’s shampoo fills her lungs, until Sara forgets the smell of her father’s cologne or Oliver’s sweat after a sparring session.

“Would you have come back?” Nyssa asks, lips brushing against her. “If your friends hadn’t needed help?”

“I don’t know,” Sara admits. “Would you have run away with me? If I hadn’t agreed to come back to the League?”

Nyssa freezes against her, pulls back slightly until their eyes meet. “My father— the punishment for releasing you without his command was harsh,” Nyssa explains.

(Sara remembers the punishments, remembers the scars afterwards. Nyssa would always find a way to bring her some healing salve against her father’s orders.)

“I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you,” Nyssa offers.

Sara runs her fingers down Nyssa’s collarbone, presses her lips to the skin. She can’t say the same; the past few months have been a stark reminder of how much she’s not willing to give up, how many people in her life she could never sacrifice. But she gives what she can for now; her gratitude, her allegiance, her touch, her conditional love.

“I’m here,” she surrenders. 

**Author's Note:**

> I COULDN'T BELIEVE I GOT MY BOOF FOR THIS and i would like to state for the record that this was hard to write bc i get super upset bc canon but!!!!! HERE YOU GO BOOF


End file.
